Forever Mine (Tormentor Mine Book 4)

by Anna Zaires

  “No! I just…” I shake my head, pulling my hand out of his grasp. “I don’t understand. I thought that was part of it, you know, marriage and all. You forced the wedding, so…”

  All traces of humor leave his gaze. “You nearly died, my love. In Cyprus, when you thought that I would force a child on you, you tried to escape and nearly died.”

  I bite my lip. “That was different. We were different.”

  “Yes. But childbirth in general can be problematic. Even with all the medical advances today, a woman risks her health, if not her life. And if anything happened to you because I insisted…” He stops, his jaw clenching as he looks away.

  I stare at him, my heart beating heavily in my chest. The odds of anything serious happening to me in childbirth are very low, and my first instinct as a doctor is to tell him that, to reassure him. But at the last second, I think better of it.

  “So you would wait?” I ask carefully instead.

  Peter turns back to face me, his gaze somber. “Do you want to wait, ptichka?”

  Now it’s my turn to look away. Do I? Up until this moment, I’d assumed that Peter’s return and the rushed wedding meant that a child is imminent in our future. I’d resigned myself to the thought, even embraced it on some level.

  If nothing else, my parents could have the grandchildren they’ve been wanting—a positive I hadn’t considered until our dinner the other night.

  “Sara?” Peter prompts, and I look up to meet his gaze.

  Here it is.

  My chance to delay it.

  To do the right thing, the smart thing.

  To have a child when I’m sure that we can make it, that Peter can live this kind of life.

  All I have to do is say yes, use the choice he gave me, but my mouth refuses to form the word. Instead, as I hold his gaze, seeing the tension there, I hear myself say, “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I don’t want to wait,” I clarify, shutting down the rational voice screaming in my mind as a bright, joyous smile curves his lips.

  Maybe this is the wrong decision, but at this moment, it doesn’t feel that way. Peter was right when he said that life is short. Short and uncertain, full of pitfalls. I’ve always lived it cautiously, planning for the future on the assumption that there would be one, but if there’s anything I’ve learned over the past couple of years, it’s that there are no guarantees.

  There’s just today, just now.

  Just us, together and in love.

  We spend another hour in the park, then go grocery shopping together, stocking up on food for the week. Peter buys enough to feed ten people, and when I question him about that, he informs me that he intends to invite my parents for dinner this Friday—and to pack me lunch to take to work each day.

  When we come home, he disappears into the kitchen, and I go on my computer to deal with the emailed congratulations and gift cards—a popular choice for the majority of the guests at our wedding, given that no one had time to shop for an actual gift. I print out all the gift cards, sort them into categories, apply the codes to specific retailers as needed, and email back a thank-you. The whole process takes less than forty minutes—yet another perk of our simple, speedy wedding.

  With George, we spent two weekends in a row on this task.

  I’m about to shut down the computer when I see another email in my inbox—this one from an unknown sender but also with the subject of “Congratulations.”

  I open it, expecting another gift card, but inside is just a short message.

  Congratulations on a beautiful wedding. If you ever need to reach us, you can use this email address.

  With best wishes,

  Yan

  I blink, staring at the email. I have no idea how Peter’s former teammate got my email, or why he decided to write to me, but I add his email address—y54834i9@gmail.com—to my contacts, just in case.

  Done with the gifts, I follow the delicious smells into the kitchen, where Peter is preparing lunch.

  This marriage thing is going to work out.

  The two of us will make sure it does.

  3

  Peter

  As we eat lunch, I barely taste my food, all my attention on Sara as she tells me about the wedding gifts and Yan’s strange email. Her hazel eyes gleam as she animatedly gestures with her fork, her skin like pale cream in the bright sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. In a casual blue sundress, with her chestnut hair in loose waves around her slender shoulders, she’s every dream of mine come to life, and my chest tightens at the recollection of what it was like to be without her all those months.

  I’m never letting her go again.

  She’s mine until death do us part.

  “Why do you think he decided to give me his contact info? Do you think he just wants to keep in touch?” she asks, spearing a piece of cucumber in her Russian-style salad, and I force myself to focus on the conversation instead of how much I’d like to spread her out on the table and feast on her rather than the food I’ve prepared.

  “I have no idea,” I answer, and it’s true. Yan Ivanov took over our team’s business after I left, so I can’t imagine he’d want me back. For months before that, there was tension between us, and I suspect if I hadn’t voluntarily stepped down, he would’ve done his best to take my place.

  Then again, he doesn’t think civilian life is for me; he stated as much at our wedding. So maybe he expects me to return and is keeping an eye on the situation just in case.

  With Yan, one never knows.

  “Well, I hope they come visit us,” Sara says. “The guys, I mean. I didn’t get a chance to talk to them at the wedding, and I feel bad about that.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Really? That is what you feel bad about?”

  She drops her gaze to her salad bowl. “And nearly standing you up, obviously.”

  The metal edges of the fork handle cut into my palm, and I realize I’m squeezing the utensil too hard. I’m no longer mad at my ptichka, though a bit of hurt still lingers. I understand how difficult it was difficult for her to admit she loves me, to embrace me fully after everything I’ve done. She needed me to leave her no choice, and I obliged, threatening her friends to make her show up at our wedding.

  No, the source of my anger is not Sara, but the man who tried to manipulate her into bailing on our wedding.

  Agent Ryson.

  The fact that he dared to show up like that fills me with blistering rage. I leave Henderson alone, they leave me and Sara alone—that was the deal. No more FBI surveillance, no harassment, just a clean slate so we can lead peaceful lives.

  He threatened Sara, too. Accused her of conspiring with me to kill her husband. I have no idea what he said to her, exactly, but it must’ve been bad to make her react so strongly.

  Under any other circumstances, the ublyudok would’ve already been dead, but I’m supposed to be a law-abiding citizen now. I can’t go around killing FBI agents—not without giving up the life I’ve fought for, the civilian life that Sara needs. So as tempting as it is, Ryson lives—for now, at least. Later on, when enough time has passed, he might meet with an unfortunate accident or an overly aggressive mugger, à la her patient’s stepfather… but that’s a thought for another day.

  Today I have Sara all to myself, and I intend to enjoy it.

  “Don’t worry, my love,” I say when my new wife continues to eat quietly, avoiding my gaze. “It’s over. It’s in the past—as are whatever other mistakes we’ve made. Let’s just focus on the present and the future… live our lives without always looking back.”

  She looks up, her eyes soft and uncertain. “Do you really think we can?”

  “Yes,” I tell her firmly, and reaching over, I lift her hand to bring it to my lips for a tender kiss.

  After we eat lunch, we go look at the listings I showed her, and Sara falls in love with one house—a five-bedroom Victorian that was built in the eighties but completely renovated last year. It has a large back
yard—for the dog and the kids, she gleefully tells me—and a gorgeous fireplace in the living room. I’m not crazy that it’s so close to the neighbors and the yard is completely open, but I figure if we plant some trees and put up a fence, we’ll have sufficient privacy.

  Either way, it’s better than living in Sara’s current rental.

  Before we leave, I put in an above-market all-cash offer, and the realtor calls us a few minutes later to inform us that the offer has been accepted.

  “That’s it,” I tell Sara when I hang up. “The closing is next week.”

  She grins at me. “Really? Just like that?”

  “Why not?”

  She laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose because most people don’t buy houses as easily as they buy shoes.”

  I smile and reach out to take her hand. “Most people aren’t us.”

  “No,” she agrees wryly, looking up at me. “They’re not.”

  We return home, and I make us dinner—grilled scallops with sweet potato mash and steamed broccolini. As we eat, Sara brings up moving logistics, and I tell her that I’ll take care of everything, just as I did with the wedding arrangements.

  “All you’ll need to do is show up at the new place,” I say, pouring her a glass of Pinot Grigio. Then, remembering her inexplicable upset over the sale of her Toyota, I add, “Unless there’s something you want to decide on together? Maybe you want to choose new furniture or decorations?”

  She smiles ruefully. “No, I think I’m good. I’m not overly picky about house stuff. If you want to run with it, I’m fine with that.”

  “Good. To our new place, then.” I lift my wine glass and clink it gently against hers. “And a new life.”

  “To our new life,” she echoes softly, and as she sips from her glass, I can’t help remembering the time when she tried to drug my wine, early on in our relationship. She’d been so defiant then, so sure that she hated me.

  Does she still? In some small way?

  My mood darkening, I set my wine down and stand up. Walking around the table, I pull Sara to her feet.

  “What are you—” she begins, but I’m already kissing her, tasting the wine on her lips.

  Her soft, plush lips that have been driving me to distraction all day.

  I’ve been doing my best to act like a good husband, to do all the normal things with her instead of chaining her to my bed and fucking her all day long like my instincts demand. I’ve been calm and patient, letting her recover from last night, but I can’t do the civilized thing any longer.

  I need her.

  Right here.

  Right now.

  Her arms wind around my neck, her slender body arching against me as I bend her over my arm, unable to get enough of the taste and smell of her, of the feel of her delicate tongue stroking against my own. She’s fucking delicious, and my cock hardens, my heart thudding furiously in my ribcage as I clear the dishes from the table with one swipe of my arm, heedless of the mess I’ll have to clean up later.

  We need to get new dinnerware anyway.

  She gasps as I stretch her out on the table and flip up the skirt of her sundress, exposing pale thighs and a pretty blue thong edged with lace. Unable to control myself, I tear off the scrap of silk and bury my head between her thighs, my tongue dipping hungrily between her folds, my lips closing around her clit on a hard, greedy suck as I drape her legs over my shoulders.

  “Peter… Oh God, Peter…” Her hips lift off the table, her hands fisting tightly in my hair, and I feel like my cock will explode in my jeans at the taste of her, at the warm, feminine scent and the feel of her silky flesh under my tongue. I love everything about this—how her sharp little nails scratch my skull and her toned dancer’s thighs squeeze my ears, the gasping sounds tearing from her throat and the way her slick pussy quivers and contracts under my tongue.

  This is paradise, fucking heaven, and I can’t believe I went without it—without her—for nine agonizing months.

  Continuing to feast on her clit, I slip a finger inside and feel her inner walls clench around the intrusion as her hips lift and shimmy, wordlessly begging for more.

  “Almost there… just a bit more,” I growl into her folds, stroking her from the inside, and as I find the bit of spongy tissue that signifies her G-spot, her whole body arches and she comes with a keening cry, her hands clenching spasmodically in my hair as her pussy pulses around my finger.

  By now, my cock is threatening to explode inside my jeans, so I withdraw my finger and flip her over onto her stomach. Then I pull her toward me until she’s bent over the table, her dress bunched up around her waist, exposing the firm white globes of her ass and a pussy glistening with her wetness and my saliva. Unable to wait even a second longer, I unzip my jeans and push them down along with my briefs, freeing my aching cock.

  “Ready?” I say hoarsely, leaning over her as I guide myself to her entrance, and her breath audibly hitches as I push in without waiting for a reply.

  Inside, she’s velvet soft and slick, her tender flesh gripping me tightly, sheathing me so perfectly that my balls draw up against my body and a low groan escapes my throat as my fingers dig into her hips.

  This is fucking madness, a total and utter insanity. After our talk last night, we had sex two more times before falling asleep, and I shouldn’t be feeling like this, so desperately hungry for her that I’m on the verge of losing control. But I am that hungry. I’m ravenous for all things Sara. The need to possess her claws at my bones, the dark lust arcing up and down my spine. I feel it burning in my veins, incinerating me from the inside out.

  She’s my addiction, and I can’t get enough.

  Releasing her hips, I reach over and grab her elbows, pulling on them to make her arch her back before I slam harder into her, feeling her inner muscles clench around me as I start fucking her in earnest.

  She cries out with every punishing thrust, her upper body lifted off the table by my grip on her elbows, and I feel the orgasm boiling up within me, the pleasure rising like a tidal wave. Groaning, I throw back my head, hammering into her faster, and her cries intensify, her pussy tightening around me as her whole body goes stiff. I feel her spasms begin, and then I’m there, my cock jerking in release as her wet flesh pulses around me, milking me, squeezing me until there’s nothing left.

  Until I collapse over her, pressing her into the table as I breathe heavily, inhaling the heady scent of sex and sweat and her.

  My Sara. My wife.

  My obsession.

  We could spend an eternity together, and I’ll still never get enough.

  4

  Sara

  I wake up to the quiet beeping of my alarm. Shutting it off, I roll over onto my back and stretch, feeling both sore and satisfied. After we cleaned up the kitchen and showered, Peter took me one more time before we fell asleep, and then again during the night.

  Someone needs to bottle up the man’s sex drive and sell it as a drug. They’d make a fortune.

  Grinning at the thought, I hop out of bed and run into the shower. I can already smell whatever deliciousness Peter is cooking in the kitchen, and my stomach is more than ready to start the day.

  “Morning, ptichka,” he greets me when I step into the kitchen after quickly showering and getting dressed for work. On the table are two plates with avocado toast and egg, and on the counter is a lunchbox—I presume for me to take to work.

  “Hi.” My heartbeat accelerates as I take him in. He’s shirtless today, his dark jeans riding low on his hips and the tattoos on his arm gleaming in the morning light. His body is a work of art, with perfectly defined muscles and broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Even the scars on his torso have a kind of violent, dangerous beauty to them—just like the man himself.

  “Do you have time to eat?” he asks, and I nod, fighting the urge to lick my lips as his ab muscles flex in front of me.

  Maybe Peter is not the only one with an insane libido.

  The condition might be c
ontagious.

  “I have fifteen minutes,” I say huskily, forcing myself to walk over to the table instead of toward him. If I give him a good-morning kiss now, we’ll end up right back in bed.

  “Good. I’ll take you to work this morning,” he says, joining me at the table. Picking up his toast, he bites into it, and I do the same with mine, enjoying the zesty lime flavor combined with the savory fried egg and crisp rye bread.

  “Is this a busy week for you?” he asks when I’m almost done with my toast, and I nod, patting my lips with a napkin.

  “Yes, actually. Really busy. Wendy and Bill—you know, my bosses—just took off for vacation, so I’m seeing some of their patients in addition to my own. Oh, and I’m inducing one of my patients tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll probably be home late. Plus, I have some shifts at the clinic in the second half of the week.”

  “I see.” Peter’s expression is neutral, but I sense a subtle darkening of his mood. He’s not happy about this, and I can’t blame him.

  I’d also rather spend time with him than go to work.

  “Will you be home for dinner tonight?” he asks, and I smile, glad to be able to give him good news on this front.

  “I should be. If there are no emergencies.”

  “Right.” He stands up. “Let me grab a shirt, and I’ll drive you to the office.”

  “Thank you—and thanks for the delicious breakfast,” I call out, but he’s already gone into the bedroom.

  5

  Peter

  Sara’s office is walking distance from her apartment, so the drive is just a few short minutes. All too soon, I’m pulling up to the curb and handing Sara her lunchbox, all the while feeling like I’d sooner gnaw my arm off than let her out of the car.

  I hate that I won’t see her all day long, that I won’t be able to touch her or talk to her until evening. It’s even harder than last week because we got to spend this Sunday together—and I now know what paradise feels like.